L'Étranger
by TheSilentPen
Summary: 'You're not interested in the story on the pages. You're more interested in the REAL story in the cursive of that old French copy of 'The Stranger.' Rachel Berry loves collecting old books. One day she stumbles across a book with with intriguing notes and starts exchanging letters with its old owner: L. Quinn Fabray. AU. Faberry.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee or any of its characters.

**A/N:** This is the **second of two prompts** I chose on my Tumblr prompt-me session. It's ANOTHER prompt from **erato13**, who writes VERY inspiring prompts. I lost the ACTUAL prompt, but **erato** basically asked me to write a story in which '_Rachel collects books and is intrigued by the writing in an old book, which has Quinn's address in it_.' It's based off an old story about Lt. John Blanchard called _The Test_ (which I do not own). So I put my own little spin on this, and this was the result.

**Erato13**, I hope you enjoy this, and thank you for sending me another amazing prompt. I was only too happy to write this.

Once again, I hope EVERYONE enjoys this. Leave me your thoughts in a review :) It'd be much appreciated.

* * *

**L'Étranger**

_TheSilentPen_

* * *

You've always loved books.

Reading had been your favorite thing to do back in Lima. It staved off the loneliness you felt when you had no one else in your life.

The sprawling adventures inked into the pages, the way your mind soared beyond the limits of your small, Midwestern town. The way the writer could shape an entire world through the skillful arcs of his pen, drawing out sprawling deserts, entire kingdoms, and breathing life into _people_. People who breathed, fought, lived, loved, and died just as anyone alive might.

The characters _were_ alive in your mind. As beloved as a dear friend, always in the recesses of your mind, waiting to be given life so as to give advice or offer a friendly shoulder to cry upon.

Jay Gatsby as your 'pretend lover,' willing to bootleg entire warehouses of store to see you happy. Willing to offer you the world on a silver platter for a fraction of your love and loyalty.

Elizabeth Bennett as your best friend, ready to tear down the unkind in the hall with a sharp swipe of her witty tongue. Someone willing to rip a slushy from an idiotic jock's hand just to throw it in his face and give him a taste of his own medicine

Learn courage and diligence from O-lan of _The Good Earth_. To learn to have the courage to stand up for what was yours and mark it so. To leave such an impact upon someone so as to have him remember you till the end of his life on Earth.

Yes, you truly loved books for their story, for their escape, and for the friends they provided you over the last eighteen years of your lonely life.

And you loved the _books_ themselves for the stories they told in their worn pages. The novel _beyond_ the one the author had written, loved, and submitted to the cruel scrutiny of the world's audience.

The cherished smell of ink and worn paper, the yellowed, lovingly tattered edges of each page, the sometimes stained pages, smelling of old coffee or tea.

They all told something about the person who'd owned the book before you had. Held a little slice of the puzzle that you'd try to put together.

It was a game you liked to play. Who _did_ the book belong to?

It smelled of chocolate and the sharp scent of raw sugar? The book, perhaps, belonged to a world class candy maker, obsessed with making the perfect piece of candy.

Another book, _Frankenstein_, was highlighted and annotated down to the last verse, with remnants of the sticky residue from post-it notes.

She imagined it as a book belonging to an anxious student from Carmel high School, feverishly taking notes for the next day's reading quiz on the book, cursing his AP teacher right down to the instant before the test. The moment the student finished his test, he'd discard the book in the donation bin, relieved to be rid of it.

Perhaps some books that held a tea stain every few pages most likely belonged to a successful businessman winding down after a long day at work with a nice read of a great American classic.

Coffee stains spoke of someone with a busy life, wanting to catch a moment or two of solitude here and there in between the few still moments in life by reading her favorite novel, drugging herself with coffee to remain awake.

The possibilities seemed endless. For all you knew, one of your books could have belonged to Barbra Streisand (which would have been utterly amazing) or perhaps to the President of the United States.

Imagining who a book belonged to was half the fun.

The habit carried on into the future, well into your college years at Juilliard.

New York had many a cozy bookstore nestled away between the piercing majesty of skyscrapers and the dirty alleyways. Many more _real_ stories and guesses, sleeping in the mahogany shelves until someone came and grabbed them from the shelf.

And you would listen. You'd take a neglected book from the shelf, give it a home, and listen to the words spoken by damaged covers and scars left from lives before this one.

You strove, after all, to be the greatest singer and actress Broadway would ever see.

If you didn't know _all_ the stories, how could you possibly play _all_ the roles you desired to?

You could touch the lives of so many others through those books, through every little stain or little flaw on the page.

You just never imagined _someone_ could touch _yours_.

It was a bit of a freak accident, finding this book that would touch you and change your life forever (as much of a cliché as it sounded, it was utterly true).

Your sophomore year at Juilliard, you'd gone out to wander the streets of New York in search of a new coffee shop, after the terrible economy decimated the little Espresso shop down the street from your Residence Hall.

You walked several hours that day, breath steaming in the cold of the winter, your books crunching against the snow and your cherry red scarf tight about your neck.

You'd just about given up before you turned the corner of some obscure street in the city, finding yourself down a small, narrow alleyway of curious little shops, crammed together in claustrophobic rows.

You took a slow step forward, eyes drifting about the area, watching the scant few people in the alley shuffle in and out of stores mindlessly.

The deep, warm glow of a shop in the middle of the row caught your restless gaze as you came to a steady halt, hands buried inside your pockets.

The modest little window, etched in soft gold with '_Sullivan's Bookshop, Est. 1963'_ displayed several lovingly displayed, worn copies of some of your favorite novels.

But these books were unique. Different. Some of the titles were leather bound, with gold or silver page edges. Others in different languages, the curling script within the novel's pages written in rainbows of ink.

Books that were familiar, books that you'd seen a million times before in different bindings and editions, these books had taken a different form.

Were pieces of _art_.

…What other sorts of books _were_ there?

Curious, you edge over to the door, grasping the tarnished handle and pull yourself into the shop.

The warmth crowds your cheeks, making them cherry red with cold. You step inside slowly, wiping your ice laden boots on the mat as you tentatively advanced into the little shop.

Books of all shapes and sizes are piled into dark stained shelves, casting little shadows across the room with the gentle crackle and snap of the little marble fireplace in the room. The walls, painted a warm beige, _glow_ with the firelight.

An old man wearing jeans and a checkered shirt sat at the cashier desk, bent over an old, thick volume. The glint of firelight against his glasses hides his eyes from you. He slowly flips the page of the volume, unperturbed (or perhaps unknowing) of your presence.

The first creak of your books against the floor makes the man's eye shoot up from the page. A slow, warm smile spreads across his lips as he abandons the novel, stepping forward from behind the desk.

"Welcome!" his voice is a rich, booming tenor that echoes across the modest size of the room. He holds out a large hand in greeting, grasping your own between surprisingly warm, callused fingers. "Mark Sullivan, owner of this modest little establishment. And what, might I ask, is the name of a beautiful young lady such as yourself?"

"Rachel," you say, shyly. You haven't been around so energetic a person since High School, and it's a little disconcerting. "Rachel Berry."

"Rachel?" the name slips between his lips with respect, almost as though saying the name of a very old friend. "What a beautiful name. And what's brought you to this end of New York, Rachel?"

"I…" you swallow a bit. "I was looking for a place to get coffee and I saw this store… I was… curious."

"You like books?" Mark asks.

"I _love_ books," you say without hesitation.

"Well, Miss Berry," that same wonderful smile across his face. "I can get you a decent cup of coffee and a good book if you don't mind an old codger hanging about you."

You smile. "No… no, that'd be really fantastic."

"Alright then," Mr. Sullivan's smile widens. "I'll get going on that pot of coffee. Why don't you take a look around? Make yourself at home! There are plenty of books to go around."

And with that he shuffles off into the distance, leaving you there, alone amongst the stacks of books.

Your eyes sweep along shelves, unsure of where to start. You lift a hand from your coat pocket, teasing the spines of the books with a small curve to your lip.

You pick up several copies of well-known novels, flipping through them curiously, the stories echoing in the back of your mind from moments spent during nights in high school, reading underneath your covers with your newest book light (you'd read so much you'd always burn out the bulbs within months of receiving a new one).

The stories are captivating. Are timeless.

But the _real_ stories, the ones on the pages, of the owner of the books, are not present.

The pages are worn, are tattered.

But there are no indications, no marks left from the last owners.

Either that, or the stories are already ones you've read before. Of late night studying, of businessmen…

You want something _new_.

Something you've never imagined…

_Someone_ whose life you've never touched before.

You find it the instant your fingers hit the brown and gold leather spine of a book hidden in the very back of the shop.

You feel the light scratches in the warm leather as you pull it from the shelf and hold it up to the scant light, narrowing your eyes to make out the faded, gold text:

'_L'Étranger'_ is written in dull, harsh gold lettering.

'_The Stranger_,' you know, from several years of French in Middle school and High School.

You open the book slowly, the scent of crushed flowers ('_…Gardenias_, _perhaps?'_ you ask yourself) floating to your nostrils.

You know this book well. You read the original French version of it in high school for French literature and never cared much for Camus' pessimism.

It was an important story, you recognize, but not one you'd read again. You never thought you'd hold a copy of it in your hands again.

The pages are smooth beneath your fingers as you read the first familiar lines of the story that'd disturbed and chilled you down to the bone, more powerful in the original French than the translations.

Words that the story's protagonist (if he could even be deemed one) emotionlessly drawled upon for several lines.

His indifference regarding his mother's death.

You can see a slight crease in the center edge of the paper in the shape of someone's thumb made from a gentle caress of the page before turning it.

You run a finger over the marking for several moments before slowing sliding onto the next page, eyebrows rising slightly.

The next page is _littered_ with writing in black ink, commenting on certain passages of the book.

The notes, however, aren't the unsteady, exhausted hand of a college or high school student before a test, nor notes on Camus' style.

Instead, the handwriting is a smooth and flowing cursive joining words together in neat, small script. Every loop of the writing is deliberate, every word carefully selected, not a single thing scribbled clumsily from the page.

The writer criticizes certain aspects of Camus' existentialist thought. Questions the definition of certain words or scenes. Slowly dismantles the book from the inside out, displaying perfect understanding of the French on the page and the complex concepts within the novel.

The last page, containing the final lines proclaiming the 'benign indifference of the universe,' are especially marked, proclaiming that 'the universe in itself is not an uncaring world since there are those in the universe who care for the individual' and that 'those who care for the individual are part of the universe themselves, just as the individual is.'

The passages the person writes are deep and philosophical. They pose interesting questions that challenge your mind or force you to look at the book from different lenses.

By the time you've scanned half the book, you feel as if you've had a thorough philosophy lesson, gained a little more respect for Camus, and managed to engross yourself in '_the writer's'_ story more than the plot of the novel.

You flip quickly through to the front page of the book, searching for some sort of identification, some sort of marker.

And you find it, behind the front cover, written in the same elegant script as the notes in glaring, bottle green ink:

'_L. Quinn Fabray_

_PO Box 870576  
New Haven, CT 06520- 0576'_

A book from Connecticut? Your brow furrows.

What was a book from Connecticut doing all the way over in some obscure bookshop in New York City?

"Ah, you found the books from Yale, I see."

Mark smiles as he takes the book gently from your hand, flipping to the front, a strange little half-smirk on his lips as he runs his finger over the address. "Those Yale kids are quite something. The rarest books always seem to be right on their shelves."

Your mouth drops open a bit as you point to the gently-used book. "Wait… this book is from Yale? How did you…"

"At the end of every year, the kids have a book drive where they donate books to local shops," Mark explains. "This book's one of the ones I received over the summer for summer donation."

You stare at the book for a while, thinking of the curling ink on the page, of the argumentation, of the philosophical thoughts etched into the yellowed paper.

'_L. Quinn Fabray_,' the name sounds like that of a famous author, with its initialed start and unique surname. '_L. Quinn Fabray _from Yale.'

You wonder what kind of person L. Quinn Fabray is. Who he (or she) is, what she looks like.

What he _sounds_ like.

There's an address on the book. It's a long shot. Who knows if L. Quinn Fabray lives in the same residence hall, or if he even attends Yale as a regular student and not as a summer school participant.

But you can't let it go.

You can't let _L. Quinn Fabray _go.

So you take the book gently from Mark's hands, reaching into your pocket for your wallet.

"How much will this book be?"

* * *

You send out a letter the very next day, fingers crossed and heart hopeful. It's a simple letter, explaining the circumstances under which you obtained the address and your desire to get to know L. Quinn Fabray more.

You know that it's _very_ unlikely that L. Quinn Fabray, whoever he is, will answers your letter (he'll probably throw it in the trash the instant he reads the first sentence), but you still have to try despite it all.

Because there's something about that wondrous mind that intrigues you. Makes you want to get to know him.

Two days later after dance class, you lazily check your box, surprised when you find a white envelope placed inside. You never usually get anything other than cards and packages.

You pull the letter from the box, eyes widening as you stare are the handwriting on the pure white façade of the envelope.

'_Miss Rachel Berry'_ is written in smooth, looping, dark black ink in the same neat hand from _L'Étranger_'s notations. In the corner, _Fabray_, in dark, stylistic cursive carves into your eyes and makes your heart _pound_.

You jog eagerly up to your room, envelope in hand, slamming the door shut after several yelled hellos and goodbyes at your confused friends.

You sit down at your desk, breathing deeply as you turn the letter over slowly, resting a finger under the corner of the seal to gently break it open.

Three sheets of _parchment_ rest inside, neatly folded, covered back and front with L. Quinn Fabray's writing. You pull the pages from the envelope and slowly begin to read.

The mysterious writer introduces herself as _Lucy Quinn Fabray_, or _Quinn_ as **she'd** prefer you to call her. She's a sophomore, like you, at Yale, studying Philosophy and Foreign Language.

For the rest of the letter, Quinn goes on to write about her High School life and her first year of college. You discover that she's from small town Council Bluffs, Iowa, at a cross between Nebraska, Kansas, and Iowa itself. A Midwestern girl, just like you.

She asks what school you attend in New York, what your major is, and what your hobbies are (jokingly asking if you make a habit out of stalking the owners of used books).

Her words are gentle and kind in inquiring after you and your own life. Even expressing a desire to continue contact between the two of you.

And so you do.

The two of you spend the next several months writing each other without fail.

Sometimes the letters are serious and philosophical: Quinn ponders the existence of a higher being (something she tells you she's struggled with her entire life as a Catholic) or some other metaphysical question. Sometimes she tells you about the stupid people in her class ('_the other day, Joe Hart from Santa Cruz answered an entire half of the problem set wrong! What an idiot!')_. Sometimes she writes to support you ('_no matter what you do, Rachel, never doubt that you're one of a kind. You sound like a hell of a person on a piece of paper… you must be even more stunning in reality')_, or sometimes she writes you just to write you.

You write back with serious answers and share _so_ much of yourself. Your hope to make it on Broadway, your fear that you never will because for every one of _you_, there's six people better here at Juilliard. You talk about Lima, McKinley, and it's terrible caste system of baptizing students with slushies ('_I can't believe anyone in their right mind would __**do**__ such a terrible thing!' _Quinn wrote furiously the first time you told her).

You write about your fathers, who just didn't love each other enough to stay together, and the mother who didn't love you enough to try to get to know you after she chased your shadow for sixteen years only to leave you alone again.

You share _everything_.

And Quinn seems to get it.

Seems to _understand_.

And as you share _more_ and _more_ of yourself with her, you can't help but feel a little bit of yourself leave your pen every time you sign your name at the bottom of the page.

Like your heart's going with the letter and, little by little, Quinn Fabray will piece together the little bits of your heart in some sun-drenched, cramped dorm room at Yale with a smile on her lips.

You're falling in love with her, and you're not quite sure how that's possible.

You've never seen her face, never even met her before.

But you know her words. You know the smooth curve of her letters across a page, the slight scent of vanilla and spice that comes with those rustic pieces of parchment paper she writes her words on. You know the crease of her thumb of the edge of the paper from Quinn flipping the page over firmly to write on the back.

You know Quinn is a kind heart, a good soul (though she can sometimes be a little too sarcastic for your liking).

But you've never seen what color her eyes are, what her color her hair is.

You've _heard_ Quinn. Heard her in your mind and heart.

But you've never _seen _her.

You look her up on Facebook, only to find no matching 'Quinn Fabray' living in either Council Bluffs or New Haven. You try googling her name, only finding little snippets about a smart young child writer from the Midwest with no accompanying pictures.

It's like she's a ghost.

In a letter, you ask for a photo to see what she truly looks like, and you'll send her one of yourself.

Quinn refuses.

Tells you that '_what I look like shouldn't matter if you care about me.'_

And you know she's right when you read the letter, even if you are more than a little angry for several weeks.

Because Quinn had already proven herself a friend. She'd never been anything _but_ kind to you.

She had no reason to doubt her.

But that doesn't make it hurt any less that she won't let you see her face and that she _refuses_ to see yours (you'd asked if she'd wanted a photo, and she'd stalwartly _refused_).

So a whole year crawls by without you mentioning that mishap again.

And still, you continue to fall in love with this faceless college student.

Because even if _she_ isn't perfect or beautiful, her words are.

Two months into your Junior year, you get a place in an up-and-coming off Broadway Musical called _Spring Awakening_, playing the tortured yet naïve heroine Wendla Bergman. Your tears are instant the moment you are called for the part. The first thing you do is put pen to letter to tell Quinn about your triumph.

She writes back in an excited flurry, her usually steady hand shaky and the easy loops of her cursive giant across the page. She congratulates you and says that she's so proud of you. That she knew you'd make it.

She guides you through the ups and downs of the rehearsal schedule. Helps you to balance school and work until Opening Night arrives in a flash.

'_You'll be wonderful. Just relax_.' The words, in black-blue ink, play in your mind's eye as the curtain rises and the strings sound in the background.

You lose yourself in Wendla's character, singing out her pain, her loss, her confusion.

During the scene, you feel something bearing into. Something heavy and insistent.

You scan the crowd to search for it, finding a pair of steady eyes from the front row meeting yours.

In the glare of the stage lights, you can barely see anything except the way the beams play off the sparkling gold and emerald color and a single curl of golden hair.

The gaze is deep, almost knowing in its severity. Penetrative.

It makes your heart beat quickly. Nearly makes your voice falter against the smooth rhythm of the song.

But you pull yourself together and _fight_ it. Your eyes dwell toward the back of the theatre and shut, though you still feel that burning stare piercing into you.

You make it through the rest of the show without incident, relying on your partner, Jesse St. James to distract you from those burning eyes.

Sensing your distress, he holds you a little more tightly to his body, turns you away a little more from the crowd during the scenes. Fully engages you until you _can't_ worry about the stranger in the front row.

After the final curtain and several standing ovations, you rush into your dressing room, eager to make it off the stage.

There's a slight pounding on the door as you pull on your shirt and button your jeans. You make your way to the door and open it to find a stagehand smiling at you, a large bouquet of red tulips in his hand.

"Miss Berry," he says. "These were left for you at the stage door."

"Really?" you ask, taking the flowers in hand and smelling them deeply. "Was there a name to go with them?"

"No, Miss Berry," he shakes his head before holding out an envelope. "Only this letter."

Your heart nearly stops, your mouth going dry.

_Rachel Berry _is scrawled across the top in careful, cursive hand.

In _Quinn's_ hand.

You thank the stagehand in a hurry, all but snatching the letter from his confused hand and closing the door behind you.

You place the flowers down on your bureau, your hands shaking as you pull the message from the envelope and read the message:

'_Rachel-_

_You sounded every bit as beautiful as I knew you would. You __**are**__ every bit as beautiful as I thought you'd be._

_Congratulations on tonight, you make a truly splendid Wendla._

_Have a lovely night and I hope to hear from you soon._

_Love with all my heart,_

_Quinn'_

You sit down on your couch, trembling, running your hands across your face.

The eyes.

The eyes in the front row.

Quinn had been there… That was _Quinn_.

Quinn came to your opening night. She came and left flowers.

You can hardly process this, hardly comprehend.

Quinn had been _so_ _close_…

Ad while it means the world to you, you can't help but wonder.

' _'Why didn't you __**stay**__?"_

Still, you still your tongue in your writing and instead tell her you're so glad that she came. That she had time to come down on what was most likely a busy school night for her just to see an insignificant Broadway play.

'_It wasn't insignificant. Anything with __**you**__ in it is beautiful and special,'_ she writes. '_I wouldn't miss it for the __**world**__.'_

The months pass quickly, till one night, as you dress up after the show, tying your scarf around your neck and settling your coat around your shoulders, the stagehand _again_ pounds on the door.

This time, he hands you a single flower, a deep, blood red rose and a single envelope.

He has a slight smile on his face as he leaves you, brown eyes sparkling mischievously.

Quinn's handwriting is splayed across the front, spelling out your name in beautiful penmanship.

You open the envelope, as you have done many a time, and unfold the starch parchment.

'_I think it's time we met. I'll be waiting outside the stage door with a white rose pinned to my chest. I can't wait to see you.'_

Your throat is dry.

God, you've waited for this for a _year_. Waited to meet Quinn. To put a face to the writing, to the story that started with that tattered French copy of '_The Stranger.'_

Now that it's finally _the meeting_, you're not so sure of what to do anymore.

Because while you've prepared for this _forever_, it still hasn't prepared you for the real thing.

You take a deep breath, shutting the lights off in your room and locking the door swiftly. You make your way to the stage door, closing your eyes before shoving it open with a smile on your face.

The fans that surround you eagerly ask for your autograph. They shove paper after paper in your face, ask for picture after picture. They congratulate you, tell you they love you, and then leave you.

None of them have a white rose pinned to their chest.

Ten minutes later, after the hype dies down, you are left standing alone in the alley, eyes scanning down toward the street.

There's no one there.

You sigh, dejected as you shove your hands in your pockets.

You wouldn't expect her to show.

Then there's the crunch of snow behind you and book, a copy of _Spring Awakening_ held out toward you with a blue sharpie.

"Hey, Miss Berry," the voice is a soft, teasing, and smoky alto. "I was wondering if you might sign this. I'm a _huge_ fan."

Your eyes snap up to meet with the most beautiful pair of hazel eyes you've ever seen in your entire life.

It's a woman, around your age (you guess), wearing dark-washed, skin tight jeans with a pair of boots, a heavy coat draped about her slight shoulders, a black scarf secured tightly about her neck, and a black beanie atop shaggy, jaggedly cut golden curls.

She stands a little taller than you, with a thin, athletic frame that screams of some sort of running or gymnastic experience in every taut muscle. She's pale, almost as pale as fine porcelain, with deep, full red lips quirked into a lazy smile.

Her features are delicate, feminine, a regal in their own right.

Your eyes fall to her chest where, pinned against the black of the stranger's jacket, is a stunning, white rose.

You shake your head slowly, disbelieving.

Quinn smiles softly at you, quirking a fine gold brow as she shoves the book playfully forward. "So… may I have your autograph, or are we going to stand aimlessly staring at each other in the snow for hours, Miss Berry?"

You snap out of it, quickly taking the pen and signing it crisply, snapping the book shut, the looking up at her. "You sure know how to steal a moment, don't you?"

"There was a moment there?" Quinn says, smirking playfully, then yelping as you smack her shoulder. "Hey, hey, no stranger abuse!"

"We're not strangers!" you hiss, crossing your arms.

"We haven't introduced each other," Quinn says, jabbing you in the ribs with a gloved finger. "So until then, we're perfect strangers."

"I think you already know who _I_ am," you say pointedly.

"Maybe I don't, reintroduce me."

"_Quinn."_

"How do you know my name, oh strange stranger?"

You sigh before smiling slightly. "Rachel Berry from Lima, Ohio. Broadway ingénue and student at Juilliard."

"It's so nice to meet you, Rachel Berry!" Quinn says merrily before taking your hand gently. Her smile gentles about the edges. "I'm Quinn Fabray from Council Bluffs, Iowa. I go to Yale and I'm majoring in philosophy and foreign language with a concentration in French.

"And well, you see," her eyes look down at your lips as she comes closer. "For the last year and a half I've been conversing with the most _enchanting_ young lady. And I'm afraid I have _quite_ the problem, Miss Berry."

"Really?" you breathe softly, looking up into dark hazel eyes.

"Really," she confirms, lacing your fingers together. "You see… I've wanted to tell this girl how much I _love_ her for the last sixth months, but it hasn't been very easy… You see, she's a big star on Broadway, and I'm not sure if she has anyone else in her life right now… Any… leading men, if you catch my drift."

"Mmmm, I think I do," you murmur, threading your fingers in soft, gold hair. "Sounds like a terrible plight."

"Oh yes, I know," Quinn replies conversationally. "Because you see… she's the most extraordinary thing in this world. She makes all of Plato's dialogues look like trash to me. She's more fascinating than any of the books or texts I have… Which has never happened before… So I'm wondering if she loves me too…?"

You smile, running your free hand across her face. "Yes… yes she does… _I _do love you too."

"Well that's…" her words soften as she comes closer. "…That's wonderful."

Your lips meet gently for the first time.

Her lips are chilly against the warmth of yours, tasting sharply of coffee. You can smell the spiciness of cinnamon on her, mixed with a hint of vanilla. The smell that wafted from one-too-many envelopes over the last year.

As you pull away, she rests her forehead against yours, holding your hands in hers with a faint smile on that angelic face of hers.

You stand there in the snow, pressed together for quite some time until she finally opens her eyes, which twinkle like stars in her merriment.

"Would you like to have dinner with me?" she asks softly.

You find yourself nodding and being pulled against her side as the two of you walk forward.

And as she presses a last kiss to your forehead, you smile to yourself.

'_Thank God I picked up that book,'_ you squeeze her hand.

'_Thank God for Quinn Fabray.'_

* * *

**A/N:** Alright, so see the box at the bottom? It feels lonely without words… and the author of this story feels lonely without some words too… How about you make us less lonely **and leave us a nice review** :)


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